It's the little sounds, so sharp to an owl's hearing. The faintest scrape of metal-on-metal, tiny adjustments that come with metal-on-cloth, pressed against dead flesh. The subtle squeeze of plush and cloth - stuffed animals, maybe, being held too tight? The faintest sounds of a voiceless throat trying to express a misery it will never be whole enough to speak aloud.

The creak of Phil's cabin door, when weight is adjusted against it. Someone is sitting in front of it, leaning against the steel.